Chapter 4: Shaken, Not Stirred

Neal's loft. December 3, 2004. Friday night.

It was after eleven by the time Peter arrived at Neal's apartment. June had given him a key for emergency use. Did this qualify as an emergency? Probably not, but he was glad he didn't have to wake her. If Neal was simply drunk, no need to rub it in by alerting June. Peter would be doing plenty of that on his own.

All was quiet on the ground floor. Trying not to make any noise, Peter climbed the stairs to Neal's loft.

There was no answer to his knock. After a second knock, Peter went in. Neal normally carried tidiness to what Peter considered an obsessive extreme but not tonight. His jacket had been tossed on the couch. His tie was dangling on a lampshade. One of the chairs was overturned—that must have been the chair that wandered off. An opened bottle of water was on the table with another one, luckily unopened, on the floor. Groans and the sound of running water were coming from the bathroom.

"Neal?" Peter called out from the hallway. "It's Peter. You okay in there?"

More groans. "Go away." The bathroom door slammed shut.

Wincing in sympathy, Peter put away the supplies El had packed: Gatorade, the Burke hangover remedy, breakfast makings. He left his overnight bag outside Neal's door. It looked like his fears were unfounded. Once he'd checked on Neal, he could probably go home. Neal would have a killer headache, but he'd be okay after he slept it off. Peter righted the chair and gathered up the clothes, putting them into yes, a heap, but a tidy one. Neal hadn't come out yet and the door was still closed. "You sure you don't need any help?"

"Just go—let me die in peace." It was painfully obvious what was going on. A good lesson to be more prudent next time, but he'd save his lecture for now. When Neal came out of the bathroom, he'd more than likely give Peter grief for overreacting, and then Peter would read him the riot act. Irresponsible kid, getting El upset ...

Peter rummaged in his bag for the latest issue of Sky and Telescope. At least he had decent reading material and didn't have to resort to Neal's art journals. Sitting down on the couch, he called El with a quick update, reporting that Neal was firmly entrenched in stage two and he had everything under control. Opening the magazine, Peter settled in to read.

Ten minutes later and Neal still hadn't emerged. With a sigh, Peter went back to the hallway. He was on the point of breaking down the door when it slowly opened.

"Peter, I ..." Neal was holding on to the doorjamb, barely managing to keep himself upright. His red-rimmed eyes stood out in sharp contrast to the sweaty pallor of his face. He was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering.

"Jeez, kid, what did you do to yourself?" Peter put an arm out to support Neal as he swayed at the door. "You need to be in bed."

Neal clung to the jamb with a death grip. "Not ... good ... idea," he managed to say, breathing heavily. "Too far ..." He placed a hand over his mouth, swallowing convulsively.

"Think you can stay upright for a few seconds? I'll bring a chair over."

Nodding, Neal managed to avoid collapse till a chair was underneath him. Peter brought over the throw from the couch and wrapped it around his shoulders. He clung to the throw gratefully but the additional warmth didn't seem to provide much relief. Pulling over another chair, Peter sat opposite him and lifted his chin to look at his eyes. They were almost black, the pupils so dilated that his blue irises had virtually disappeared. "You need to see a doctor. I think you were drugged."

Neal grabbed hold of his hand. "No ... don't ... If I move an inch, I'll ... be sick."

Peter studied the disheveled wreck of his consultant and went through his options. He could call 911 but Neal was coherent and responsive. Was it really worth subjecting him to an all-night visit in the emergency room? The FBI had emergency medics on call. If he had them come over, they could make the decision. Neal staggered up and lurched back into the bathroom as Peter took out his cell phone.

#

Sunlight was streaming into the room when Peter awoke. Rotating his head, he rubbed the crick in the neck he'd gotten from sleeping on Neal's couch. It was already eight o'clock. When was the last time he'd slept in so late? On the other hand, when was the last time he'd stayed up till three o'clock in the morning? Rubbing his eyes, he looked over at the bed.

The man of the hour was still in bed, a misshapen lump buried under the covers. He wasn't moving. A good sign? Peter went over to the bed and slipped his hand under the comforter to feel Neal's forehead. He was rewarded with a slap and what could only be described as a growl. His grandmother had said that as a baby, Neal growled like a bear when he was grumpy. Well, Baby Bear was in superb form this morning.

Peter pulled the comforter back from Neal's head, figuring he must need some fresh air by now. His face was flushed, his hair a matted tangle from the sweats he'd had during the night. His eyes were still closed. Peter felt his forehead again and wasn't slapped away this time. No fever. That had been one of the danger signs to watch out for. The doctor had reassured him that Neal would recover quickly.

Peter started the coffee and then moved into the bathroom, relieved that El had insisted he bring a change of clothes. While he was shaving, El called to ask about the patient.

"Still asleep. The worst was over by around three and we were finally able to get some rest."

"I assume the symptoms didn't get any worse after our last call?"

"That's right. The toxicology report came back shortly after two. The dose he'd been given fortunately wasn't strong enough to require hospitalization."

"How are you supposed to treat it?"

"Liquids and get him to eat as much as he can. Oh, this will please him: I talked with the doctor about the Burke pickle cure, and he said it was better than any commercial preparation we could buy. If it affects Neal as it does me, it will also take care of getting him to eat."

"You may have a hard time convincing him to take it but stand your ground. You're a good man, Peter Burke."

"Can't hear that too often." Peter moved outside the bathroom to check on Neal. "Gotta go, the lump's moving."

"Ur-hmphf?" Neal was still not at his charming best. Squinting up at Peter, his eyes swollen from sleep, he took one look at him and collapsed back on the bed, putting the pillow over his head.

Peter poured out a glass of water and removed the pillow from over his face. "Okay, sunshine, time to rejoin the living."

"Must I?"

"Yep, doctor's orders. You're due for another pill. Trust me, this will help."

Neal looked pitifully at him, but dutifully hoisted himself up and took the glass. Swallowing the small pill as if it'd been the size of a hockey puck, he collapsed back on the pillows.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed next to him. "How are you feeling?"

"You don't wanna know."

"What was the last thing you remember?"

"I called you and things went downhill. I was sick in the bathroom. You were there, right?"

"Yeah, I came over shortly after your call."

"That's when it got crazy." Neal rubbed his forehead. "I must have been tripping big time. There were other people here, poking and prodding me. A vampire was sucking my blood."

Peter chuckled. "Not quite. That was a Bureau doctor drawing blood, not Bela Lugosi, but you weren't very coherent at the time. You appeared to be suffering from a drug overdose and I wanted a blood sample to make sure. I called the FBI emergency medic and reported your symptoms. The doctor arrived shortly afterward. By the time he got here, you'd started hallucinating."

"Will I live?"

"Probably." Neal needed to understand what a close call it had been. "You were lucky, though. You were given MDEA. From what you told me, it was probably at the poker club."

Neal's eyes widened. "Ecstasy?"

"Not quite. Ecstasy is MDMA. This is in the same family. Lucky for you, the effects are milder and dissipate more rapidly. Your symptoms weren't severe enough to require hospitalization. And, looking on the bright side, by the time the doctor arrived, there was no need to pump your stomach. You'd already done a very efficient job of that on your own."

"Don't remind me." He looked around the room, his eyes focusing on the couch with the pillow and blanket still on it. "You stayed here the whole night?" At Peter's nod, he muttered, "God, I'm sorry. Was I as sick as I remember?"

"And then some." Getting up, Peter went to the fridge and got out the thermos of his magic elixir. He poured a small amount into a glass and took it over to Neal. "Drink up. You'll thank me."

Neal lifted his head and eyed the green liquid with disgust, wrinkling his nose at the smell. "What is that?"

"Pickle juice and a few other ingredients you probably don't want to know about it. It replenishes your electrolytes which must be around zero right now."

"I'm already in enough pain. Are you a sadist?"

"No, I'm your boss and we have mission-critical planning to do," Peter said relentlessly. "I need you alert. Drink."

"I'm dying here," Neal said with a moan. "Let me have my final moments in peace."

"You won't feel that way for long if you'll just drink this. Cowboy up, Caffrey."

Neal slowly righted himself and sat on the edge of the bed. With one last soulful look at Peter, he reluctantly obeyed. Sometimes his resemblance to Satchmo could be uncanny, but Peter had long ago learned to resist pleading looks from both of them. Gingerly sipping some of the juice, Neal said, "It's not that bad, you know. Looks and smells worse than it tastes."

"That's the spirit!" Peter beamed at yet another convert to the Burke miracle cure.

When Neal shuffled off to the bathroom, he took the pickle juice with him.

Now that the recovery was well in hand, Peter could start on breakfast. Neal was in for a treat, and after the night Peter had, he deserved one too.

It was a Burke tradition that the men made pancakes for the family. One of Peter's earliest memories of his grandfather was of him standing at the stove making blueberry pancakes for him and his brother. Come to think of it, his grandfather's stove looked a lot like Neal's old-fashioned one. El had mixed up the batter for Peter while he packed last night. He had no idea what skillets Neal owned so brought along his cast iron griddle. By the time Neal emerged from the shower, looking noticeably more alert, the first buckwheat pancakes were ready, coffee made, and maple syrup and butter already on the table.

Neal looked at the table in confusion. "What's all this?"

Peter poured him a glass of orange juice. "It's called breakfast. A quaint New York tradition. You may have heard of it."

Neal stared at him. "You did all this for me?"

"Part of the package deal," Peter said with a shrug. "After your call last night, El insisted. Making breakfast is my get-out-of-the-doghouse card."

"It wasn't your fault. How did El ... oh, right." Neal sighed. "She overheard. You put me on speaker. Was that absolutely necessary?"

"Technically, I didn't. El pushed the button herself. You were quite entertaining."

Neal put his head in his hands. "Don't remind me. It's all coming back."

Peter poured him a mug of coffee. "Don't worry about it. I didn't record it."

"That's a comfort." Neal looked at the stack of pancakes and added, "I appreciate this, but I don't think I can eat two."

"Give it a try," Peter urged. "The doctor said food would be good for you."

Neal shrugged, poured a little syrup over the pancakes, and took a bite. "Peter, I'm impressed. This is good."

"Don't act so surprised. There's more to me than deviled ham, you know." Peter brought over a plate for himself and joined him at the table. "So tell me again about last night. You told me you're part of their crew. How'd that happen?"

"Yesterday over drinks, I overheard them talking about me in Japanese. They were impressed that I knew the boss's daughter. I'd given them the impression that Nick was quite the playboy, always ready for a good time, and they leaped on it. We regaled each other with tales of our escapades. Hiroki is the leader. Shogo does whatever he says. They've been in New York for a year." Neal seemed more alert now that he wasn't focusing on the misery of the previous night.

"Do they travel to the other branches?"

"Some, but I couldn't get many specifics out of them. I asked them about their travels—it was a natural fit after I'd talked about my worldwide adventures—and they mentioned the strip joints in Sydney. Talked about Italian women being babes. Nothing specific to Rome. Anyway, by the end of happy hour, we were all pals."

Peter helped himself to more syrup. "How'd you wind up at the poker club?"

"Nick may have let it slip that he has a fondness for gambling, often with disastrous results. Turns out they belong to a club and so they took Nick along."

"Where's the club?"

"Back room of the Golden Lotus restaurant in Chinatown. High-stakes gambling."

Peter made a note. "The vice boys over in NYPD may have further intel on it."

"The drinks came without my ordering any. Although after last night you may not believe it, I do know how to exercise restraint. That stuff ..." Neal shook his head glumly. "Normally I drink wine or vodka during a con because it's harder to mask any additive. I only had two vodka martinis at the bar and I think only a couple of drinks at the club."

"Don't beat yourself up. MDEA is tasteless, so you couldn't have detected it. I'm glad you were trying to limit the amount. If you'd drunk much more, we would have been forced to make that trip to the hospital. After this op is finished we'll look into the Golden Lotus. Vice will be able to bust them for substance abuse but for the moment we don't want to raise any suspicions." Peter paused and raised a brow. "I assume Nick had bad luck gambling."

"The worst," Neal agreed sadly. "He was really getting upset. During a break, Shogo and Hiroki took him aside and offered their pal a sweet deal. They're about to make a big score. They told Nick they'd cut him in for a piece of the action. Nick's so gullible that I bet they're planning to make him their fall guy."

Peter eyed Neal uneasily. "How much money did poor Nick lose?"

"Funny thing about that. Just when it looked like he was down to his last buck, the gambling gods must have taken pity on him. On his last hand, when he was so plastered he could barely sit up straight, he cleaned up. Wound up being five grand ahead."

Peter chuckled. "After seeing you and Henry in action at Thanksgiving, I'm not surprised."

"Hey, Henry and I were kind to you guys," Neal protested.

"I'll give you credit for the first night. But the second?"

Neal grinned sheepishly and busied himself eating the remaining bite of pancake on his plate.

"More pancakes?" Peter asked.

"Maybe one more, thanks. You know, that extra five grand would be a good investment in future undercover work."

Peter poured two additional pancakes onto the griddle. "I'll take that under advisement. Do you have any idea when this 'big score' will take place?"

"They promised Nick it'd be soon, but no specifics. They said they were waiting for the final arrangements. Their godfather, as they called him, was taking care of it for them. That must be the person who's also supplying them with the vault access information."

Peter took a sip of coffee while he considered Neal's words. That there was someone higher up was not a surprise. But smoking him out wouldn't be easy. "Any hints as to who their godfather is?"

"No. They're playing it very close to the vest." Neal got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. "When they were talking among themselves, they used the word kumicho to describe him. That's a term used within the Yakuza crime syndicate to describe a boss. It strikes me that Hiroki and Shogo are entranced with the Yakuza culture. They've probably seen too many samurai movies or played too many video games."

"They may not merely be fascinated by it," Peter warned. "They could be members." He carried over a plate of extra pancakes for both of them. "What's your experience with the Yakuza?"

Neal speared a pancake and reached for the syrup. "Only second hand. Keller tried to get me interested in doing a job for them. After researching them, I turned him down."

Peter knew Neal had confessed to a couple of thefts he'd made while working with Matthew Keller, but he'd given the bare minimum of supporting detail. Keller operated overseas and Peter's knowledge of the criminal was limited, but what he'd heard had been troubling. Someday he would have to get Neal to open up about what he knew.

"Hiroki and Shogo peppered their speech with Yakuza terms, especially at the poker club after they'd been drinking. They even joked about cutting off the tip of one of my fingers as an initiation rite into their crew."

Peter put down his fork and stared at him. "You're taking that awfully calmly."

Neal shrugged. "They weren't serious ... I think." He grimaced. "Although, who knows? Nick is such a fresh-faced kid that they treat him with disdain. Their opinion of Nick—which they expressed quite openly—is insulting," he added contentedly. "But that's not all. I caught glimpses of their tattoos at the poker club. Shogo rolled up his sleeves while playing poker. I glimpsed Hiroki's tat on his shoulders when he loosened his tie. Both of them have the intricate full-color Yakuza-style tattoo. That doesn't prove anything by itself, since that style's popular now with non-Yakuza members, but it adds to the evidence."

"Do you remember the tats well enough to draw them?"

Neal nodded. "Hiroki's design in particular was distinctive. It included a symbol that may be meaningful. Monday I hope to find out more. They're the only Japanese in my section of the trading floor, and they use Japanese among themselves all the time. They're confident Nick's too much a lightweight to understand them."

"I don't like you going solo on this, and if they're with the Yakuza, we should bring in Organized Crime. How can you sniff out who their godfather is?"

"I may be able to find a paper trail or eventually they're going to drop a name," Neal suggested.

"I have something else in mind. It's time for a squeeze play. While you work on Hiroki and Shogo, we need a big gun at the top." Peter carried his plate to the counter and refilled his coffee.

"Who do you have in mind?"

"I'll fill you in on the details this evening. I'm heading for the office straight from here."

"What's our schedule for tonight?"

"El needs to be at the playhouse at five. After we drop her off, I'll take you to Donatella's."

Neal's face lit up. "That's your favorite restaurant. I've been looking forward to going there."

"We'll open them up. It'll be quiet. I'll update you there." Peter glanced over at Neal finishing his last pancake. Thanks to the magic pickle remedy, he'd eaten as many pancakes as Peter. Satisfied that his work was done, Peter said, "After you get dressed, I'll drop you off at Columbia on my way to work."

Neal blanched, staring wide-eyed at Peter like he'd just announced the coming of the Apocalypse. "I'd almost forgotten. This is the fourth, right?"

"Last time I checked. Why?"

Neal moaned and put a hand to his head. "I'm so screwed. Our fencing club's competing against Yale at one this afternoon."

Peter eyed him doubtfully. "You better call in sick. After being drugged, your coordination's bound to be off. The doctor said you'll be fine but you may be a bit wobbly for fencing."

"You don't understand. They're counting on me—we don't have that many members. Jones is bringing his nephew Ethan to the match. And that's not all. Fiona's coming. This will be her first time to see me fence." Neal propped his chin on a propped-up fist while staring at his plate as if that last bite of pancake could provide a solution to the disaster looming in front of him.

"Sorry, but I don't think it's a good idea. Just tell them the truth. You got wasted on an assignment."

Neal glared at him. "Very helpful. They'll either label me a drunk or a wimp. No, I have to do this."

Peter went into the kitchen and poured out another glass of pickle juice. "Drink up, kid. This helped me survive college in some of my darkest hours. Maybe it will do the same for you."

#

"I'm so screwed." Aidan glanced over at Neal and Richard, daring them to say otherwise.

The three of them were finishing an early lunch at Café 212 in the student center before heading over to the fencing match. If they hadn't already agreed to meet, Neal would have begged off. After all the pancakes he'd wolfed down in the morning, there was no way he could be hungry. But given that he'd slept through the morning lecture, a jolt of caffeine was essential to survive fencing. He really hadn't planned on eating that cheese sandwich. Now, glancing down at the few remaining crumbs, he was strongly tempted to get a second. What was in that pickle juice cocktail anyway?

Richard regarded Aidan skeptically. "I fail to understand why an invitation to spend Christmas with Keiko and her parents is cause for panic."

"You haven't met her mom. She's nice but barely speaks English. How am I going to win any points with her? And then Keiko's dad ..." Aidan set down his burger and exhaled noisily. "Whenever he sees me, he fixes me with a cold stare like he's gotten out his magnifying glass and is scrutinizing every imperfection."

"This coming from our fencing captain," Neal said, rolling his eyes. "You're supposed to inspire us with your sang-froid. You'll be fine. Just don't wear your jeans with the knee rips."

Aidan pointed at him with a french fry. "You can do better than that. After all, you're the expert on Japan."

"Check your socks," Neal said. "I'm serious," he added when they laughed. "Make sure they don't have holes in them. You'll need to go around in socks at their place."

"Here's a surefire way to dazzle them," Richard suggested. "Get some reindeer socks like those turkey socks Neal and Peter wore at Thanksgiving. They're bound to impress them."

"You're no help at all," Aidan huffed. "What am I going to talk about with them? Not my hacks, for sure, and my videos are difficult to explain. Keiko said her father is still upset she's not going for an MBA, and her art is a lot more accessible than mine."

Hard not to feel for the guy. Aidan had been there for him during the frame attempt by Fowler last month, hacking FBI equipment with nerves of steel that would have made Superman jealous. Impressing a potential father-in-law was clearly several orders of magnitude scarier. "Why don't you learn a little about Japanese fencing?" Neal suggested.

Aidan's expression grew intent as he considered the idea. "Columbia has an active kendo club. I could compare European and Japanese fencing techniques and impress the hell out of Mr. Nakahara. He'll have to award me points for my interest in Japanese culture."

Richard chuckled. "When actually you're just interested in Keiko."

Aidan shrugged happily. "What about you two? Any Christmas plans?"

"I'm going to Hawaii after exams," Neal said, ignoring their groans. "Peter's brother is marrying my aunt. A family reunion is in the works. I'll think of you when I'm lounging on the beach." He turned to Richard. "I don't need to ask what you'll be doing."

Aidan chimed in. "Yes, how many sci-fi movies can you sit through during the holidays?"

"Travis keeps ordering more," Richard admitted. "He's taking advantage of our days off to kick-start my appreciation of the subtleties of space creatures. Between Christmas and New Year's we're going to binge on all ten Star Trek movies."

"You're not only focusing on Star Trek, are you?" Aidan asked. "Some of them are very dated."

"Don't let Travis hear you say that," Richard warned. "But don't worry. He also has several others on tap. We're hitting the ones with the best creatures. My favorite is Stargate Atlantis. I'm impressed at how well they manage the CGI on a limited budget, and their creature creation is state of the art." Richard's mention of CGI propelled Aidan into discussing digital effects, and the next several minutes were consumed with talk of alien creatures, special effects, and the upcoming convention. It made Neal tempted to participate in the convention too.

Aidan called a halt to the discussion of other worlds when he pointed out the need to head to the gym in this world. Neal could have happily postponed it a while longer. His head still throbbed.

"Are Jones and Ethan coming?" Richard asked.

"No, I got a text from Jones this morning," Neal said. "Ethan's come down with a cold. I was looking forward to seeing him again."

"So just Fiona to cheer us on," Aidan said, standing up. "Keiko will be at a class."

Richard turned to Neal. "This is the first time she's seen you fence, isn't it? It's like a medieval joust. You'll be her champion."

"Just what I needed—more pressure." Maybe he should have brought along a thermos of pickle juice.

Aidan slipped on his jacket. "Didn't knights wear something in their lady's honor? Ribbons, a flower?"

"Better not ask Fiona to give you anything," Richard said. "She'll probably string a lute around your neck and make you sing in between bouts."

Neal looked at them, surprised. "Where'd all this medieval jousting talk come from? You two are die-hard modernists."

Richard shrugged. "I saw that Pre-Raphaelite painting you're working on. Knights, code of chivalry—I figured I was talking your language."

"That was just a trial effort, an experiment that at the moment is going nowhere." The painting was a sore subject. He'd intended it to serve as a launch pad for a future abstract, but inspiration wasn't coming. "Can you imagine what Myra Stockman would say if I told her I was trying to bring Pre-Raphaelite concepts into the twenty-first century?"

"Better not try," Aidan advised. "She'd get out her medieval rack to use on you."

As they exited the student center, Richard added helpfully, "She could be merciful and only boil you in oil."

From what they were saying, he might as well abandon the concept, Neal thought glumly. Better to toss it now before letting her see it. He still believed the idea had potential. He'd been inspired by the Tale of Genji screens. Those enamel-bright colors had reminded him of the palette in Pre-Raphaelite paintings. And both painting schools extolled a romantic code of chivalry. What would a twenty-first-century interpretation of that look like? The world would have to wait a while longer to find out.

When they arrived at the gym, the floor was being readied for the competition. Neal didn't expect many spectators since Yale didn't have the large alumni base that Harvard had commanded a couple of weeks ago. They discussed strategy while suiting up in the locker room. Richard was a novice fencer and would only compete in the foil bout. Aidan and Neal were slated for both the sabre and épée competitions.

Aidan glanced over at Richard's locker as he got out his fencing jacket. "Is that the voodoo doll from your studio?"

"No, this is a new one, customized to bring out my pirate blood," Richard said, looking more nervous by the moment. "Have you heard anything about my opponent?"

"The Yale team's not that strong. You have a good shot," Neal said, seeking to reassure him. He leaned over to look at Richard's latest voodoo creation and lost his balance, having to grab onto the locker door to keep from toppling over. Not the smoothest move for Fiona's knight.

"You okay?" Aidan asked, giving him a startled look.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Neal said, giving himself a swift mental kick. He'd spent the past hour disguising how he felt only to blow it in the final lap.

"You sure?" Richard eyed him worriedly. "You look a little green to me."

Probably from all the pickle juice he'd drunk. Neal played Peter's words in his head: Cowboy up, Caffrey. He zipped up his fencing jacket and slapped on a smile designed to inspire even a novice like Richard with confidence. "That's my version of break a leg—a good luck stumble. All for one, guys. It's showtime."